Some Sort of Freedom
by Miriamimus
Summary: All Dean can do is shoulder his rucksack full of twilight and make his way on to some sort of freedom. Harry's friends and peers each have their own way of dealing with horror in the Year of the Carrows. Their different escapes at different events.
1. Colours

_if you think it's overwritten, then fine, it's just an experiment. But if you liked it, I have been thinking of doing other characters through the year too. Let me know with a review xx_

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_**C **O **U **L **O **R **S**_

Two things have always intrigued Dean Thomas and he thinks two things will always intrigue him. They are numbers and colours.

As a child, it was the numbers drilled into him. As his stepfather pointed out, you can't get far with colours.

But now as Dean says goodbye it's the colours he sees. The fuzzy darkness of his sister's hair, the glitter of his mother's crystal tears. He kisses their cheeks and makes each hug last all-too-short an eternity, but in the end he has to go.

He walks out of the faded house, red and blue and green and brown into the monotone grey of the suburbs. Somewhere above him, the world is the colour of drizzle waiting to fall, and everything is the dark shades of grief and despair and loneliness. Every time he blinks he sees the gold parchment that brought it all on. Crawling across it are the tarantulas Seamus calls _handwriting_, three words, three desperate words from one boy to his best friend. "Get out now."

Of course Dean has seen corners of newspapers at the chequered breakfast table before he hushes it away from his family, but the black and white words are as clear as day, he can't prove his lineage, and to them his veins are the colour of mud, mud that needs to be washed away.

So he's leaving. He finally found that red and gold courage and explained to them. They understood, he spent three days wrapped in golden love before he packed the rainbow of his life and was gone.

The wand, the wand, it's at the top of the rucksack, ready to use, but he's determined not to. After all the murky pain that the thing has brought about, he suddenly doesn't want it anymore. He doesn't want magic, he doesn't want enchantments and charms, for the first time since his eleventh birthday, Dean Thomas wants to be _normal_.

He walks away from the soft faded life he's always known into the jungle green unknown of, well, everything else.

He stops when he steps onto one of the dirty lanes that leads into a purple undergrowth behind brick houses, on the rise of a hill. He stops and feels in the indigo of his jeans for the coin.

The coin. It's yellow gold, and only he noticed what no one could see wrong with Hermione's work,_ it's the wrong gold_. It's too yellow, too bright, not subtle enough for the real thing, and now he realises he's never pointed the problem out.

It's the thirty-first of August, tomorrow everyone will be leaving, on the crimson train with cloud-coloured smoke. He wonders if the colours will be dulled by the gloom. If Ginny's copper laugh will be heard ringing in the corridor or not, if Lavender's rose petal smile will appear under her midnight eyes. He sees behind his eyelids the colours of it all, the colours he's always associated, the shamrock of Seamus' Quidditch robes, the gold flecks in Parvati's inky hair, the fresh yellows of Neville's cacti. He sees it all and suddenly realises how much definite colour he has seen in life, compared with the ambiguous shades that surround him now.

He pockets the coin again. When it burns orangey red he'll know, and he'll come running back to the rainbow that he's left behind.

But for now, all Dean Thomas can do is shoulder his rucksack full of twilight and make his way on to some sort of freedom.


	2. Journey

_Thought I'd continue. If you're wondering what this is going to be, it's going to be a collection of kind of meditation/drabble things (I'm so ineloquent it isn't even funny), on Harry's peers in Hogwarts each with a different theme as they try to escape to well, some sort of freedom hence the name._

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_**J **O **U **R **N **E **Y**_

Seamus Finnegan loves to travel.

His father would take him hiking in the Reeks, or up to wander the busy streets of Dublin. His mother would Floo him to Paris for a short and elegant day of wandering day, or Apparate him to the Statue of Liberty to gaze on New York city. They took him to everywhere his world was missing and he realised his dreams didn't hold these places.

They held the journey there, the day or the moment that just for once, the world passed you by and you were completely yourself.

The train's pulling out of the London station, moving with the steady beat the steam gives, the quaint rhythm on the tracks below taps itself out. Seamus leans against the window and watches the world go by.

This is what he loves, seeing life. Seeing the backs of gardens, seeing birds on telegraph poles, seeing every bit of the world as a blur, a blur that doesn't involve you.

Because the parts that do involve you aren't nearly as good.

Parvati and Lavender are sitting opposite him, and Parvati's crying. The thought of her parents is printed all over her face, the last remnants of their sobbing goodbyes. Lavender looks at him, with those blue eyes that he feels can see into his soul, she's dry-eyed, but it doesn't make it any easier.

They're going back and nothing is the same.

Seamus bites his lip as he looks where Luna Lovegood is sitting. It's Dean's spot, it's always been Dean's spot. But Dean's travelling now too, travelling in a different -just as ugly- part of the world. He hopes his best friend has taken his last warning to heart, that he's safe, that he's gone.

Seamus watches the square against his forehead turn from grey to red to green. It looks so much easier than Ginny's face set in a grimace, than Neville's clenched fists. His own world is so difficult compared to that outside. He used to love the rumble of his father's car beneath him, knowing that he was between two worlds, where nothing could touch him.

But the wrong is touching him on all sides now, and even Apparating can't get him out of this world.

His friend's faces are telling him the same, this train journey, usually so celebrated is taking them to what they're trying to escape from.

And nothing they can do will stop it.

Seamus' mother's face flicks in front of his eyes and he shakes her out. She's back, behind, in the world he was always too eager to leave and now would give everything to have back.

The compartment is silent. Ginny stares listlessly into the corridor, as if expecting somebody, _anybody_ she needs to come through it. Neville frowns into his own, clumsy, leaf-stained hands. Luna's pale eyes are covered with translucent skin and her fingers dance in an uneasy dream. Parvati's tears are still falling, dripping down her coffee cheeks onto her jumper. Lavender has her head in her hands.

And Seamus. He just stares, hoping if he wishes hard enough, this last journey from freedom will last a lifetime.


	3. Pattern

_**P **A **T **T **E **R **N**_

Susan un-plaits her hair yet again and snorts in frustration at the mirror.

Hannah's perched on the sink worktop and looks up. Susan pulls her hair over the front of her forehead and attempts to cover the first scar, a long red thread twisting its way between freckles.

Megan's half used bags of make up sit open in front of her, pasty foundations and slimy cylinders of concealer rendered useless as they sting. Susan flicks more hair into her eyes.

It's the first scar of many. Alecto Carrow gave it to her for standing up for Ernie when he was about to be punished. A quick and painless flick of the wand for the elder witch, a scarlet line carved into her skin for the younger one.

Hannah grimaces but doesn't speak. Susan throws down the last of the ivory sticks to the white enamel basin and tugs at her hair again.

It was her aunt that showed her how to plait her hair. One day at Sunday lunch, the illustrious Amelia showed up. With her monocle still in and a pile of legal tomes under one arm she couldn't have looked more out of place in her brother's soft sitting room. When little Susan came into the room with her hair all a-jumble Amelia had tut-tutted, set her pipe down and beckoned her over. She had taken the thick, frizzy reddish locks in her hands and said "Keep this mop under control".

With a lot more patience than her relatives thought her capable of, she had shown the little girl how to split her hair into three parts and pull them into the thick rope.

Twelve years on, little Susan has grown up to more than anyone expected, and she finds solace in the pattern Aunt Amelia showed her all those years ago. Aunt Amelia who died the summer before. Now she plaits her hair in memory to her more than anything.

She pulls it back and methodically repeats it, to the very end, and fastens it with a turquoise bobbin.

With the copper pulled off it however, the crimson shines brighter. The blood of the world seems to shine on her forehead. She pulls the plait out again and sighs.

"It'll heal," says Hannah reassuringly.

But until then, Susan can't help but notice the marring of her head. It's not that she's vain about her face, but the scar reminds her of what's happening in her world.

She re-plaits her hair, trying to make it perfectly sleek like she always does, thinking of that time when the great witch that was her aunt pulled it back wholly and completely and little Susan ran her fingers over the meandering parts. Hannah frowns at her as she tugs it out a third time.

"It looks fine." she says soothingly.

Susan shakes her head and begins again, twisting each part around itself to keep them separate and pulling them all back with nimble fingers. There's some freedom in the familiarity of the pattern, left to middle, right to middle, left to middle. She repeats again and again, thinking if she can make this one thing perfect then maybe, just maybe, the rest will follow.


	4. Chase

_**C **H **A **S **E**_

Demelza chases the sunset.

It isn't until near the end of September that McGonagall accepts Harry isn't coming back and calls Ginny as captain. Seamus, Demelza and Geoffrey (who admits he prefers chasing to keeping) stay on throwing the red ball from one to the other, long after Vicky has disappeared from the goalposts and Jimmy and Ritchie have packed up the Bludgers. Ginny leaves first, unwilling to stay where memories of Harry lurk in the shadows of the stands.

The others toss it to and fro, but you can see their eyes are falling and their feet are reaching for the grass. In the end, it's always Geoffrey that leaves first. Seamus tries to stay on, but he shakes his head of umber hair as Dean's ghost flies between them. He gives her one weak smile and two words "That's enough," before setting down.

"That's enough." Anybody else would reckon he was tired of the sport, but Demelza can see his shifting gaze, how all her team mates are desperate to flee the memories, they've had enough of running away.

The memories that chase them.

But Demelza won't let them chase her. She's going to chase them back, just like she's always done.

Both icy hands grasp the mahogany Nimbus 2000. They go white below the gloves as she charms the ball to fly in front of her. The last rays of late autumn shine golden over the treetops. To the west the sky is pink beneath lavender clouds.

She catches the Quaffle and tosses it through the ring at the opposite end. As her Squib brother, who loved rugby as much as she loved Quidditch once remarked "She could throw something fierce." But she does not retrieve the Quaffle as she pulls in at the end of her glorious dive. She looks back up to the west, to where the sun is setting and rising on a different world.

She loops her hair back up into its bobbin (it always escapes around her face), kicks off and suddenly she's flying.

She's in the air, but for a moment she's flying inside as well. Hogwarts is gone, the stadium and the Quaffle are gone, all that's left is her and the multicoloured horizon.

She stares for a moment, a nanosecond, over the walls of the school and considers flying high enough over the Carrow's spells, flying and chasing that horizon, to freedom and beyond.

But the next moment, a movement, a bird or someone at a window brings her plummeting back down inside. She sees the Quaffle, sees the abandoned goal and bites her lip as she drops. She can't leave her life like that.

She picks up the Quaffle, returns it to the box and walks back up to the cold warmth.

She looks up to the impossible quest, as the sun sinks below the hills.

In her head, she's chasing the sunset far away, to a better place.


	5. HideAndSeek: part i

_**H **I **D **E **A **N **D **S **E **E **K : **part i_

Amongst the dark corridors of the castle, Hannah remembers playing hide and seek in the sunny passages of school.

Now hiding in the musky mahogany space behind a dust coloured tapestry, it's hard to believe it's the same place.

Squeezed into the cranny, she breathes as quietly as possible, almost glad that Justin isn't here. Now there's barely room for her, the walls of the space have grown thick with memory.

The closest knot in the wooden panel is that first time Justin asked her for a kiss. She ran away, straight into the arms of Susan. Next, when Hannah breathed the hundred counts, on the hundred and first she ran straight here to find him to make him be "on" next.

Now peeking through the gaps in the tapestry she wishes it was him hiding in here, not her, and that this was just a game.

But it isn't. She's hiding from the far-too-real threat of Alecto Carrow's wand against her face for the foot high letters. "Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting." Hannah has a funny feeling Alecto would feel better if the writing was in Hannah's blood. After all, she supplied the alibi while Luna swirled up the slogan in purple paint.

Hannah breathes slowly, wondering what to do next. She knew it was a risk, but it was the light in Neville's eyes that made her volunteer. Only now she wishes he, or anybody, was here.

She wishes that there was someone else to play with her, she thinks, crouching down further hiding her shadow from those on the other side.

She wishes she wasn't just one girl playing a game by herself.

She wishes her mother was back, that the Death Eaters hadn't snapped the delicate thread of her life.

She wishes she was back at home, making packed lunches for her little siblings, and walking them past the memorial statue of the Potters, crossing her fingers and saying a silent prayer.

But she isn't. She's not even playing anymore, she thinks, seeing the shadows flit by.

Hannah suddenly wishes everything at once. She wishes that Justin was back, that Dumbledore was alive, that Harry had left and returned victorious.

And she wishes this was just a game of hide and seek, that the only thing to worry about outside was Susan tapping her on the shoulder and saying "Caught", that the only thing to worry about inside was a boy's request for a kiss.

And most of all, she wishes that she could run out anytime and seek instead of hide.


	6. HideAndSeek: part ii

_finally, an update! Just to say I'm not implying anything between Hannah and Justin...**

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_**H **I **D **E ** A **N **D **S **E **E **K **part ii_

On the dusty heather strewn moor, Justin hides behind a rock.

He remembers back to those first games of hide and seek, and though here he can breathe the freshness of the plants, he can't help but think back to the cubby all those years ago.

He wishes that Hannah was here now, he thinks, pressing against the rough stone and remembering knotted wood. The stone holds its own memories. But he is not one of them.

He doesn't belong here, far out of the way, hiding from an enemy he cannot see. His mother cried when he left, wishing now she had sent him to Eton.

But he would be petrified all over again, if he could just be back in the safe and warm, hiding from a laughing Susan behind a tapestry rather than crouching still next to a boulder cowering from darkness.

He looks out on the moor. There's no one here, and no noise but lonely birdcalls and his own breath. He wishes that, not just Hannah, but anyone was here, to breathe with him, another heart beating close by.

But all there is is Justin, holding on to memories like a lifeline.

There are no footsteps, no shapes in the lengthening dusk, but still he dare not move. Not since the cruel face in black hood flickered into existence, a look of disgust on it as if it could smell him.

He wishes it was a congested Susan searching for him, that could not smell at all.

And he wishes there was someone here beside him.

There are a thousand and one things Justin Finch-Fletchley could wish for right now. But all he really wants is to be back peeking through the fibres of a tapestry with a Hannah fighting the giggles.

He can't remember why he asked her for a kiss that day, but he has a feeling it was to scare her away. He can't think of the reason why he wanted to scare away the shy smile and gentle voice, the truly good person.

But now, her world has scared his away and their places are reversed.

Yes, he could wish for safety, for longevity, for another chance, for them to forget about him. He could wish for Megan by his side, for Ernie's laugh, or for his father's booming voice.

But all he really wants to wish for is to be back in the bright castle, with a friendly voice and nothing dangerous to hide from.

He wishes for that day, when they had nothing to be afraid of but a threat of a kiss, a threat he would have been too scared to carry out.

All of a sudden, he wonders where Hannah is now.

But wherever she is, right now, he remembers her hiding in the nook behind the tapestry.

And he wishes his hiding place felt as safe.


	7. Equations

_Lisa is a Ravenclaw in the Trio's year, not an OC. But I quite like her, we may be seeing more of her. If you want to tell me, yes, more, or no, no more, click that little blue-grey button and leave me a review! Reviews are the currency of the land!_

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_**E **Q **U **A **T **I **O **N **S**_

Lisa Turpin has been set to supervise those who rebel, as her own punishment, but her own little rebellion sits on the desk in front of her.

The coarse pencilled numbers are part of a supply she brought with her at the beginning of term. Numbers aren't dark, they can't be sensed, but the equations that she copies out cannot be coded.

Her Ravenclaw rebellion is one that cannot hurt anyone.

In front of her, another chained First Year lets out a whimper. Lisa looks to her best friend and worst enemy, the clock. At half past four, on the dot, Michael comes and unchains them. It's their routine. The Carrows never check on her quiet watch. Michael slips in, and does what Dumbledore's Army does best, without a care.

Lisa wishes she could be like him. Padma told her about the duelling practice, the graffiti, everything Lisa has been far too scared to do. All she can do is break down numbers until somewhere, there's something that makes her feel better.

The little secret breakaway that her Muggle mother has taught her is all Lisa can manage, when she sees Michael enter. He gives her a little smile and she blushes. Michael's what she's always wanted, though with Ginny and Cho, he never notices shy little Lisa.

In his eyes, she's not a rebel.

But the algebra that spreads itself out as the clinking chains unwind tells her that she's doing all she can. She unravels the mystery behind them and hopes that somewhere, she'll find the answer to it all.

Michael leaves the First Years rubbing their wrists, and on his way back out, he smiles to her. Lisa can't help but blush rose again when he comes over.

"Thanks." he whispers.

But he doesn't know the half of it. All she is to him, all she's ever been to him, is shy little Lisa Turpin who does anything for him happily.

But secretly, Lisa imagines that he's thanking her for the numbers hidden below her hand, for staying loyal to her mother, to him, to everybody else.

In her mind, Michael is thanking her for her own little rebellion.

But she knows in fact, he's thanking her for sitting back and allowing everyone to get on with what they do best.

He doesn't know that the numbers that keep her broken away, that keep her a rebel, will always be what little Lisa Turpin does best.

But as Michael thanks her for letting him revolt, the maths in front of Lisa is what's letting her do it.

Her little rebellion can't hurt anyone, she thinks, as he slips out of the door, not knowing that she's watching.

Michael Corner is a dream, as much as Hogwarts without the Carrows is.

But an equation, something complete and definite, that's real and true.

A real and true answer, that's what her dreams are filled with these days.

And freedom and Michael Corner can wait until she and the her personal rebellion have worked it out.


	8. Purple

_I really HATE this chapter, I'm sorry. But I didn't want to delete it, so up it comes. Don't feel obliged to read it._

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_**P **U **R **P **L **E_

Parvati never liked to be confused with her sister.

But now and again when she needs to use the Prefect's bathroom or speak to a Ravenclaw, it's all to easy to slip into that character that is Padma Patil. The softer voice and quieter outlook, the scarlet heart drops into the azure disguise so often that Parvati's afraid she might be turning purple.

So in her mind, Parvati sees Lavender and just as purple a companion walking down the corridor. October rain slaps itself against the windows, covering their voices as if protecting them.

But it doesn't muffle the sounds of echoing footsteps behind them. Lavender performs her best spell and disappears into the wall behind her, leaving only Parvati feeling lavender herself.

"Patil!" Alecto Carrow screeches. Parvati's glad she's wearing plain robes and turns around.

Parvati drops her red and gold voice to bronze and blue tones, answering "I'm just going up to the common room, can I help you?"

Alecto, lopsided and wheezing stops. "Oh, it's you. Thought it was your good-for-nothing sister." She turns and limps away.

Lavender illusions herself again and speeds round the corner. "Don't know how you stand it," she whispers.

Parvati, the old Parvati, could not. She would stand crimson and deny it. But the old Parvati, the one that is brave and true, has disappeared somewhere in the course of these past months.

Suddenly, the Patil twins aren't twins anymore. They're triplets. The third sister has the same inky hair and soft treated skin, and she shares Parvati's scar from falling off a broom but both sisters know that she isn't the same girl.

Lavender frowns as she sees scarlet Parvati attempting to break free, to make herself known, to be red and gold again.

But the third Patil twin stays put, and stays strong. She's a lot safer a person to be this year. When you're violet, nobody can touch you because you shouldn't exist.

Lavender's more Brown these days, down to earth and blunt. Sometimes her eyes glisten with tears but Parvati notices her wiping them hastily away. But the third sister ignores them. It's the girl's own fault, after all. For being there. The old Parvati, she's gone, she was weak. Her strength was her weakness, her pride in being crimson and gold, the fearless wish to do good.

But red's been switched to blue so much in these past weeks that it's diluted. Like blood swirled with ink, the third sister, not clever enough to be blue, makes her own standard. Afraid to be Gryffindor, _afraid,_ even by itself, knocks the lion heart out. Instead there's a griffin, something morphed and unreal, on a marbled background.

Because when you don't exist, you're free.


	9. Kindness

_Thank you to everyone who boosted my spirits about the last chapter. I was having a bit of insomnia last night, and the next one appeared in my mind. It's a bit different to the others, it's more of a ficlet and has less of a fixed theme, but if you read it seperately from the others, I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's a bit longer as well._

_So, dedicated to the lovlies that read my last chapter, and hoping you'll like this one: that is, JeanieBeanie33, Nur Ich and RainShowerSunshine._

_Now read, and if you like or no, just click that little blue-grey button! xx_

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**K **I **N **D **N **E **S **S

Pansy stands with her wand drooping at her knees, head bowed and breath shaking as the others take their turn. She isn't showing kindness to the younger pupil, but if there's one thing she hates, it's pain.

There's some strange alliance between the Gryffindor and Slytherin pupils this term, she thinks. Greg, Vince and Millie aren't a part of it, but there's some underlying understanding as they stand in the Dark Arts classroom. Daphne, Lavender and Parvati take it in turns to simper and flutter their eyelashes at Carrow, flicking their wands and giving a nervous smile, promising to try harder next time. Blaise and Theo manage to act it, sending the charm but not creating any real pain, at least they try not to, and in between them stand Finnegan and Longbottom, who flat refuse.

But Pansy, proud as always, is overlooked by the scarlet pupils, who are all scarred to match their banner. There's no place allotted for her, like Daphne, no small allowance, like Theo and Blaise. There's something in their looks that say that if she's going to do it, she's on her own.

Carrow calls her name and she steps forward. The third year, punished for Merlin knows what, sets his pleading brown eyes on her. She raises her wand with trembling hands but before her lips have found their way around the words, the wand clatters to the ground in the echoing room and she crashes to her knees.

"I can't-" she begins to sob.

As Carrow berates her, she can feel the others eyes on her back. _Slytherin, should be better than this, _she can almost hear the thoughts whirling in her housemates minds.

Carrow raises his wand and she cowers behind her useless hands. The slash burns across her face, searing and terrible, before he stomps away.

Vince and Greg spit on her as they leave. Millie gives her a look, _Scum, _she says with her eyes. Blaise and Theo just keep their heads up, their eyes averted. Daphne looks almost sympathetic, but is afraid of stopping.

And then it's just Pansy Parkinson, kneeling alone in a deserted room.

A hand, large and hot puts itself on her shoulder. "That was brave," says Neville's slow voice. He's leader of the rebellion, a rebellion she doesn't believe in, that she refuses to be a part of.

When the corridor is quiet outside, the Gryffindors reveal their secret, a basin of Murtlap essence hidden in the wall. They kneel around her, like points on a compass. Lavender sits in front of her, her face marred with wand marks. She squeezes out the cloth and hesitates, unable to bring herself to help the Slytherin.

On either side, Seamus and Parvati mirror her expression, unwillingness and fear, and curiosity. Curious to see what persuaded a Slytherin girl to show kindness.

But it's not, it's _not._ Kindness has nothing to do with it. She's not in the alliance, she's an outsider. She isn't part of the rebellion.

She stands up and the bowl slides away, across the worn flagstones. Pansy lets out a shuddering sigh as she runs.

She doesn't want to be selfish. Of course she doesn't. But she is. She can't bare to hear Neville call her _brave_. She's the opposite. She's a coward, that can't stand up to her own fear. She's never liked the Gryffindors, Parvati's laugh grates against her, she can't stand the way the boys drool over Lavender. She doesn't want to be them.

But she doesn't want them to think she's better than she is. All she is is a Slytherin who can't stand pain. There's no type of kindness, no bravery about it. She can't hear them tell her she is. Not when they're doing so much. Maybe they're on the wrong side, but what they're doing, it isn't selfish, not like her. They can stand watching and feeling pain, but she earns so much more of it by shying away. The cut drips, and every drop is like a piece of bravery, the bravery they think she possesses, falling away. They can find kindness in themselves in one another.

When you're on the right side, there's no kindness allotted, and the pain burns so much more.


	10. Knowledge

_Bit different from the others, hope you like it. Please review...**

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**K **N **O **W **L **E **D **G **E**

Anthony Goldstein looks at the knowledge hidden under his bed, and inhales the dust off the pages. It smells like Annabelle's perfume, just like it always has.

His older sister was the one who taught him to read and write, his father reluctant to let him go to a Muggle school but busy at the bank, his mother suffering from migraines, it was Annabelle who introduced him to words, and told him always to want more, to never stop striving to know everything. And he agreed. Despite the fifteen year difference between them, they understood each other. If anyone had ever asked Anthony what he wanted to be when he was older, not that they ever did so, he would say he wanted to be just like his sister.

Then his world tumbled down on the day, a year before he went to Hogwarts, that his mother bundled him into his new black dress robes that trailed on the ground to stand in the damp cloudy graveyard, while a dull man tried to recall his bright sister. It didn't work. Anthony could only see her in his mind, still shining and lovely, and wrapped up in a book. On the other side of the grave, her fiancé, a banker from Gringotts like their father sobbed, and his mother wept on the ground, and Anthony swore from then on, every time he opened a book, he would remember Annabelle's laugh and her calm hands helping him across the text.

The notice went up a few days before, no Defence Against the Dark Arts books to be found in possession of any student. The Carrows had the idea to search dorms, and Anthony breathed a sigh of relief when Flitwick refused. "My students are intellectuals, if they wish to study, then I will trust them to it." Alecto was far too scared to harm such a powerful, if a little small, wizard.

Anthony grins, realizing he just said "little small". He runs his hand over the front cover of the tome in front of him. His hands are bony now, not like the chubby baby fingers that Annabelle would trace across the page. He can still see them, him sitting on her lap, and her unadorned, clean and manicured left hand guiding his along the text, then later, her reading excitedly to him as she discovered some new twist in her novel, hands waving in the air, engagement ring catching the light.

He doesn't see a messy boy's dorm and a lonely teenager's tiny rebellion of unreturned library books. He doesn't see a world turned upside down and inside out. He sees his sister in their family's library, at a thousand moments at once. Dark hair flying like a halo, and big brown eyes sparkling the way they always did. He sees a young woman who gets so excited over a newfound spell for cheese making that you think that one day that spell could save the world. He sees the person who didn't want knowledge to know everything, or to show off, or to succeed, but because it was beautiful, because it was wonderful.

Annabelle would have fought to keep that knowledge he's kept under his bed, he thinks, dropping the valance sheet again. And he'll fight too.

Wherever she is, he hopes she's free, and surrounded by a mountain of things to discover.


	11. Memories

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_Sorry it's taken so long..._

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**_M_**_ E **M **O **R **I **E **S_

Ginny sits under the beech tree in the cold, November rain, and remembers.

Nobody else sits by the lake in November. The comforting walls of the castle embrace each and every one of them on this dreary afternoon. It's absolutely lashing, and she's wearing jeans and an old shirt of Dean's. The rain can't ever wipe the smell of him off it.

She remembers him first. His crooked smile on his face, his too-big hands waving in the air under this very tree, tired from his OWL exams and telling her a story. It's a nice, simple one, about his stepfather falling into the wheelie bin. She laughs as Dean does a somersault in mid-air to illustrate his point and lands with an arm on either side of her, consciously adding "I got him out, he's okay" at the end, the crooked, slightly shy smile returning. She can smell him then, clean and nice, not like Michael, who smelt vaguely dusty. She can smell him now on the wind.

She loved him, she really did, she remembers. She loved that belly laugh, the way he watched over her constantly, the way he made her feel like she was the only girl in the world. She misses him too. Missed how everything seemed so easy with Dean, just one big picture of the world where she could paint out the bad parts.

But there was someone she loved more.

The bright green eyes sparkle in the November rain, and the face builds around those. The glasses, the scar, the face, the jutting jaw and straight nose. The smile. It's not crooked, not like Dean's, it's perfect. She feels Harry's arms on hers as he pushes her back onto the ground. It's May again, the sun is shining, the first real day of summer. He kisses her, his lips are warm on hers and she knows that she doesn't love him the same way. She loves Dean for the jokes he makes, his protection, for a lot of things.

But Harry. She just loved him because he was _him._

The words "I love you" were bartered greatly in Hogwarts. They weren't significant or important. "I love you." She must have said it a thousand times to him, even in the short time they had.

But she never told him why.

The memory shatters and falls as rain on the grass. The world is grey again, and it's cold. She shivers without Harry's arms.

Without Harry.

It's difficult without him there.

She touches her own scar, a bright red welt across her cheek. For mentioning his name in class, for telling them all _Harry will save the day. _Up her arm is a long bruise for telling them _Dean Thomas was raised by Muggles and he was brilliant._

They're not there though. Harry doesn't know what she's doing, that she's doing it all for him. He hasn't a clue. And he isn't there to hug her and tell her it will be alright.

All she can do is remember, and hope he comes back so she won't have to anymore


	12. Demons

_Dedicated to JeanieBeanie33 (I think that's your name) who gave me the idea of doing Rosmerta as a character. If anyone has any other ideas, or requests, of characters they'd like to see, please tell me in your review and I'll do them! Also, I've always had this idea of Rosmerta and Poppy being sisters. Deal with it._

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_**D **E **M **O **N **S_

Rosmerta, once she's closed the bar and blown out the amber oil lamps, fights her demons.

They hide in the dark corners of the inn, sneers upon their faces. They're identical, often, pale and blond, and every night she curses them, throwing swear words and bursts of scarlet and sapphire light at them. They disappear into dust, only to revisit her nightmares. When the sun shines (or tries to), though, and she's relieved to have them gone, it only shines on a Hogsmeade she never knew existed, full of people searching for fugitives -fugitives that were once her best customers, a village swarming with men who bad breath and blackened teeth, asking for large amounts of alcohol and Rosmerta, needing to survive, can only oblige.

Tonight is no different. She's finally gotten the last, dirty Snatcher, who wore muddy boots on the table and pinched her thigh as she served him, away and out, and with a flick of her wand, the lamps dim to tiny drops of gold.

And the face appears. Pale eyelashes barely cover the grey irises as he stares at her.

"Get out!" she screams, and throws a curse at him. She drops her wand, and can't pick it up. She takes a broomstick instead. "Get out!" she shouts again and again, batting at him but he never leaves, until her make up has run and her vision is blurred. "Get out," she sobs. "I'm sick of you, I can't take it anymore, get out." She collapses to her knees. "Get out," she says, again and again, but the demon just watches her pitilessly and laughs.

"Rosy?" says a voice. It's not his, it's kind and familiar. She opens her eyes.

"Pops?" she asks with relief. Then her mind clicks back into gear. "Pops, there's a curfew."

"It's morning, Rosy," Poppy Pomfrey says, bending down over her sister. "Are you hurt?"

"No," says Rosmerta, hating herself. Her face is blotchy, her hair dishevelled and she's slept all night on a floor she didn't sweep yet. "I just, I," she struggles to find words, and begins to sob again. It comes easily. "I can't take it anymore Poppy," she says.

Her sister immediately bends over and embraces her. "You're alright, you're fine." Poppy was always a nurse, she knows how to take care of Rosmerta.

"I see him all the time," Rosmerta confides in her. "How could I let him do that to me?"

Poppy just shushes her and sends her away to the bathroom. Rosmerta wipes her face, taking off the clumps of black mascara and smeared red lipstick. They are as ruined as she feels, smudged, spoiled and dirty.

The pupils came for their Hogsmeade weekend a few weeks ago, and he did not set foot inside her bar. She was glad.

And yet…

And yet she's never wanted to turn people away. She steps into the shower and embraces the warm water. She sometimes wishes he'd turn up. _Look what you've done,_ she'd say. _You've ruined our lives. Look!_

And she'd force the demon to see his reflection, but the reflection wouldn't appear in the mirror and when she'd turn round, the demon wouldn't be there either. He'd be gone.

She towels off her face. Her own reflection, free of make up, frightens her. Not because it's getting old- the Pomfrey family are blessed with fresh faces- but because it reminds her of just how vulnerable she is.

She dresses in a pair of robes- short Muggle dresses are out of the question given her new clientele- and goes down to where Poppy is brewing her coffee.

Rosmerta sits at her bar and realises just how wrong this all is. Poppy will never point it out, but she's a mess. Her slender fingers tremble when they hold glasses, and she's seeing enemies in the shadows.

But the whole world's wrong, in the end. Hogsmeade has turned black, the storm clouds rage overhead and Rosmerta knows that she can't do anything. She's a prisoner to the demons, both real and imaginary.

So she just shuts her eyes and remembers back, two years or more, before they appeared and she was free.


End file.
